Chapter 10

T he rumble of heavy trucks and impatient honking of commuter traffic on the street below my apartment wakes me.

Refusing to accept that it’s morning, and time to consider getting my ass out of bed, I nuzzle down into my pillow. A crack of light makes an unwelcome appearance through the curtains where they don’t quite meet, and it cuts a garish bright line across my bed.

As much as I want to go back to sleep—because holy shit, I don’t remember ever feeling this tired—there’s no way I can now that the morning sun has begun streaming in.

I flop around, twisting onto my back with a huff.

Fuck my life. Ouch . My body is ridiculously sore.

That’s when I freeze.

My eyes snap open, and a lead weight plummets in my stomach.

Oh, god. I had unprotected sex with three men last night.

Not one of them paused to ask me about condoms, birth control, or anything that a sane-fucking-person would think to consider before leaping onto multiple dicks.

I smother my face with my hands with a groan.

What the hell was I thinking?

More to the point, how did I get back here? Did I come home with Rita? What the fuck happened to the rest of my night?

Everything is blank.

The only thing I do remember, vividly, is my three masked strangers.

Then, from somewhere in the recesses of my mind, to ease the panic rising in my throat about slipping and falling on three cocks without protection, I remember the consent form I was required to submit.

It required paperwork to prove that I had been tested recently, and to show that I was all clear. Obviously, I’m an idiot and didn’t stop to ask to see their paperwork, did I? Which was unbelievably stupid on my part… but surely if they are part of the group organizing the event, if they are part of the secret society overseeing everything within those walls, they must have to go through the same process before partaking in the evening.

Surely .

Or maybe I’m just in complete denial.

I let out a helpless noise.

Every muscle in my body has been put through a punishing workout. Between the running and the chasing and the vigorous fucking, I’m nowhere near built for that much physical activity all in one night.

My nervous system is probably completely fried now, too, after how much adrenaline pumped through my bloodstream.

Somehow, I swing myself out of bed and stumble from my bedroom into my shabby apartment, a single room that doubles as my lounge, dining area, and kitchen all in one. Coming to an abrupt halt at the sight waiting to greet me on the tiny little bench top.

There’s an envelope in matte black, crafted from expensive-looking paper. It doesn’t have an address or name on the front, but instead bears the exact same symbol I saw when they illuminated my band last night. Only this time, it is embossed in black foil.

A single crown flanked by three skulls stares back at me.

Beside the envelope is a sleek black phone. A very out of my budget type of model.

It is definitely not my phone. Which leads me to scrunch my eyes closed momentarily when I remember that moment, I stupidly dropped it during my race to escape my eventual captors. Well, so long to that. Not only did it definitely shatter, it’ll be well and truly long gone now.

I eye both items like they might launch off the bench and savage me.

My mouth is dry, and my throat feels like someone took to it with sandpaper, and I wipe my clammy palms on my oversized t-shirt. Which prompts me to look down and notice that I’m wearing my favorite well-worn, super soft vintage band tee and black panties.

A shudder runs through me, and I don’t have any memory of getting home or getting into these clothes. The blood then drains from my face when I realize I didn’t have any clothes left last night because that psychopath with the knife cut them off me.

Oh, god.

How the fuck did I end up quite literally naked and without a shred of clothing to wear? And how in god's name did I get back to my apartment?

Snatching up the envelope, I tear it open and stare at the contents with wide eyes.

It’s a tarot card.

The High Priestess.

Goosebumps prick my arms and up the back of my neck. I’m staring at the symbol on the envelope and the gold-foiled black tarot card that exactly matches all the mysterious other cards I’ve found recently.

It couldn’t have been my strangers all along. Could it?

My shaking hands place the card and envelope down on the cracked plastic benchtop, and I tentatively pick up the cell phone. The screen illuminates with the time and date, which I’m relieved to see confirms that I have woken up the next day since my excursion to the middle of nowhere. I’m not in some horror movie where I didn’t wake up for a week and suddenly discover my vital organs have been harvested while I was unconscious.

Furrowing my brow, I wonder why I’ve got the phone of some stranger sitting in my kitchen, when the face ID activates and immediately unlocks the screen.

This phone is registered to my fucking face.

When it opens up on the home screen, there’s nothing loaded except for the contacts icon. As my thumb hovers to tap on it, there’s something that leaves my blood running cold.

The photo set on the phone screen is as familiar as the back of my hand.

It’s taken of me, sleeping in my bed.

Only, this photo isn’t from last night. In fact, it hasn’t been taken any time recently at all. No, this photo must be from a time months ago, which I can tell straight away because my blanket in the image on screen is the one I spilled coffee all over and completely ruined. Much to my despair at the time, I had to get rid of it, yet here is a photo of me, snuggled blissfully unaware beneath a pristine, stain-free blanket.

My head hurts. My memory of anything after my tryst with my three masked strangers is gone. I now have photo evidence that someone has been in my apartment at night watching me sleep.

I think I’m going to be sick.

My thumb trembles as I tap the contacts button. There are only three loaded into the phone. All of them are unnamed, only identified as skull-face emojis.

With my other hand, I grip hold of the edge of the bench to stop myself from slumping to the floor. I don’t understand. What does any of this mean?

At that exact moment, the phone in my hand vibrates with an incoming message. The buzzing gives me such a fright that I immediately drop it, and the device clatters onto the countertop.

The message notification stares back at me in a silent dare. Am I brave enough to see what might be contained inside? What if there are more photos of me? What if I’ve got a stalker?

God, I’m barely able to stay upright as my head swims.

With a heavy swallow, I open the message and it’s one of the skull-face contacts that peers back at me. It only says a few words, but they are ones I know will change my life irrevocably forever.

“See you tonight, little flower.”